


It's Morning That I Dread

by Cantilever



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Bittersweet, Dom/sub, M/M, Multi, Polyamory, Rope Bondage, Subspace, Threesomes, petulance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-30
Updated: 2017-04-30
Packaged: 2018-10-25 16:41:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10768275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cantilever/pseuds/Cantilever
Summary: Iker & Sergio have a threesome to avoid talking about relationship issues. Bittersweet.





	It's Morning That I Dread

**Author's Note:**

  * For [yeats](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeats/gifts).



The first moments after a loss exist a liminal space. Time itself seems unstable, like it could go backwards as well as forwards if human beings could get on with inventing the science for it, like they learned to defy gravity. The bigger the stakes of loss, the longer the feeling lasts. The ending not an ending, the players still moving with all the proceeding momentum even though the clock has officially stopped.

 

Iker walks a looping figure eight around the pitch, dragging his feet through the turf as if punishing it for betraying them, for allowing Italy to decisively end their hopes of a return to the glory of a European Cup. A hard-fought match, put out of reach only in the last minute of injury time. He comforts teammates with a few words here and an arm around a shoulder there. All as a captain should, even if he had spent the crucial match watching from the bench. He congratulates the Azzuri close by as well, their spirits as bright as the blue that gave their team its’ name. Blue had doused red today. 

Gianluigi Buffon, legendary goaltender of nearly two decades for the Italian team, stands in the center of the pitch greeting everyone who passes like St Peter. His eyes light up to see Iker, and he extricates himself from Alvaro Morata to embrace him warmly. It had been a while since they’d last crossed paths. Gigi, always tactile, strokes his hair, asking him about life with his new team in Portugal. Iker feels more solid immediately , the hollow feeling temporarily filled up by warmth and mutual affection. Gigi Buffon had that effect on people.

“Would you like to catch up later? The restaurant in our hotel has a wonderful restaurant. A person- at least, a well-connected person like you and me- can sit in a nook and not be seen. And I’m sure Iker Casillas of all people is well-respected enough to be safe if found in Azzuri territory.” He gave Iker a full smile, with teeth.

Iker couldn’t help smiling back. Gigi’s spirit never failed to be infectious. 

“I would love to, my friend. I’m not sure if I can. I may have to be a captain tonight”. If not looking after the team members (who did, after all, have experience dealing with losses; at this level people knew whether they needed to hunker down or surround themselves with people), then at least there might be a post-game briefing with the coaching staff. Or perhaps not, with the coaching staff on its way out following the manager Vicente Del Bosque’s retirement. Iker’s the relationship with them had broken down the last few months - but it was all almost over now. They could all get through the final few steps.

Iker had always been available if Del Bosque wanted to speak to him.

In the tunnel Iker found himself nearly side-by-side with the man whose coaching career had intersected his own as a player since Iker was a boy, from youth teams to the Real Madrid first team, to the National Team. He laid a hand on Del Bosque’s arm. “We broke the curse of the Azzuri. We’ll make them remember.” The manager moves his arm deliberately out of Iker’s reach. “That was a great moment Iker, but it was eight years ago. La Roja cannot rest on its past laurels. Time for old men to get out of the way, Iker. Let the young men get on with it.” The words not directly confrontational, but the words pointed.

Iker stops in his tracks. Koke bumps into him from behind, and mutters “Sorry,” patting Iker’s head as he walks around him.

 

The lick of helpless anger started in Iker’s belly all over again as he showered, silently going through each step of his now-pointless frustrating anger at the man he’d known for most of his life. Boiling at the injustice of Del Bosque’s remark, as if he had been the one to let in two goals today. He scrubs furiously, feeling deliberately misunderstood. It was all very well for El Mister to sit on the sidelines the whole tournament, not showing any emotion, face always composed, not cheering or showing any emotion. Who was the one going around and making sure he checked in with all the young call-ups to see how they were handling the pressure, or if they needed anything? It was all very well to have a comfortable retirement to look forward to as soon as one left the team camp.

It was the players who would bear the brunt of the criticism and be picked apart by bored papers over the summer.

Iker was almost feeling better, having ranted silently at the tiled walls, when he emerged from the showers to see Del Bosque with agrandfatherly arm on Sergio’s shoulder. And Iker felt that old familiar hurt, that had begun long before the discord with this coaching staff. The knife edge of anxiety again, taking him back in flash ,most unwelcome, to the era of Mourinho. Where undercurrents swirled in the dressing room, were felt but ignored, until it turned out the most paranoid suspicions were accurate.

Iker practically bolts from the dressing room, walking as swiftly as he can without running in the direction of the Azzuri section. He needs somewhere else to be. Anywhere but the Spanish hotel and the ever present uniforms of red and blue.

Lurking outside the Italian dressing room, Iker pulls out his phone and pretends to check the locked device – not ready to actually see messages from family and friends- while keeping one eye out for Gigi. When the goaltender glides out of the dressing room he looks surprised but delighted.

“What was the hotel’s name?” Iker says.

Gigi beams and throws an arm around his shoulders. Leonardo Bonucci, just behind Gigi, gives Iker a disgruntled look and carries on to the team bus. It takes three tries and a mental comparison of three languages to decipher the French name in Gigi’s Italian accent, before they resort to typing it into their phones. He is in the midst of telling Iker about the excellent French meal he’d eaten there two night before– “Too late to make much different to my fitness now”- when Iker feels a hand at the small of his back, and he knows before looking who it is.

“I saw you leave.” Sergio says, scanning Iker’s face with flattering concern. He looks subdued, movements slightly jerky, like he’s heaving himself around by sheer will and has forgotten he has a body till it follows him. Iker realizes he’s not carrying his tote bag. He must have come out after Iker as soon as he got free of Del Bosque.

“I was telling Iker about enjoying the French cuisine here.”

“Gigi and I decided to take the chance to catch up. We were talking about grabbing dinner.” Iker tells Sergio, already bracing himself. Sergio stills, his only tell.

“Oh. Okay,” he says, looking between them. “Is that why I was hearing about something about duck? Are you even allowed to eat that?” He glances over his shoulders, as if a nutritionist will pounce out of nowhere.

“It will be vacation soon.” Gigi says, shrugging and smiling.

Iker had genuinely momentarily forgotten they were headed home in the morning. That this was his last night with Sergio for the foreseeable future. Sara was in Corral de Almaguer, her hometown, with her extended family. He was to drive south to join her, their son Martín, and new baby Lucas immediately upon landing in Madrid. His shoulders are suddenly tight as if he’s back on the sidelines, adrenaline coursing through his body but unable to affect the outcome.

“ I just… felt like getting out of the hotel tonight.” Iker says awkwardly.

“Yes, of course.”

“Come join us?” He blurts out. Sergio looks surprised, then hesitant, “Are you sure?” and Iker’s guilt multiplies.

“Yes. Please come.” He says firmly. Only then does he think to check with Gigi.

Gigi smiles broadly, apparently unperturbed. “Yes, of course!”

Sergio finds his usual friendly public smile. “Cool.” He jerks a thumb over his shoulder. “Just have to check if the team are okay, or anyone needs me for something.” He pats Iker twice on the back and heads back.

~~~

In the bus Iker tries listening to music but everything jangles his nerves. Iker turns it off and looks out the window, twirling his earbuds around a finger. It’s only a minute before they pass a billboard advertising the Euros. He lets out a long breath. Suddenly, Sergio’s fingers insinuate themselves between Iker’s neck and his headrest. He tries not to jump. Surely a year couldn’t have made his body forget Sergio’s touch. So often in the years at Real Madrid together, Iker had looked down and found Sergio’s hand on his thigh, or suddenly noticed the hand stroking his neck, never having registered it softly landing there. Physical contact was how Sergio grounded himself, he knew, was as much for Sergio’s own comfort as Iker’s.

Sergio’s arm takes up the whole armrest and Iker feels crowded, compressed. He shifts in his seat. Sergio immediately looks over, gaze worried and caring. Iker musters up a smile, and leans back into the touch. It’s too much, but - it’s there. 

***  
It isn’t long before any team captain duties are wrapped up, and they head up to their room. No one bothered assigning Iker and Sergio separate ones anymore.

“When did you say you’d be there?”

Iker checks his watch. “An hour from now.” He tosses his traveling top and sweatpants into a bag for dirty laundry. “What did Mister say?”

“Hmm?”

“In the dressing room. It just looked like a nice moment between you two.”

Sergio gives him a measuring look, before his face relaxes into something fond and a little sad.

“Oh. That I’m a Grande Capitan, a warrior for Spain.” Almost every manager ending up treating Sergio with the exasperated fondness one directed at a wayward but well-meaning son, and Vicente Del Bosque had been no exception. “And, sure, okay.” Sergio manages to look both cocky and rueful. “On a good day.” He shrugs, gives a self-aware smile. “Today wasn’t really that.” The number of people Sergio would admit that to could fit on one hand. 

Iker tries to smile sympathetically back and isn’t sure what shape his face lands on. He’s sure it’s not what he intended, as Sergio watches him for a moment and says carefully, “How are you doing?”

Iker shrugs, and digs around in his bag for nothing in particular. He’d rather to keep this to himself, but he feels boxed in, and Sergio has a knack for mending fences with people he’d pissed off that goes beyond sheer experience (though that didn’t hurt). 

“I tried to say something encouraging to Mister, about how we broke the Azzuri curse eight years ago. All I meant was that they weren’t our personal demon anymore, but he took it the wrong way. Said it was time for the old to stop getting in the young ones’ way, or something like that.” He roots around for his blazer, hoping he hadn’t left it at the Spanish base camp. “ I’m not really sure how I’m to blame for everything when I haven’t really played much.” If he couldn’t find anything else Iker’s choices were his tracksuit hoodie or the suit jacket that went with the rest of the team’s travelling wardrobe. He’d end up looking like a representative from Sefutbol rather than someone meeting an old friend in a nice restaurant.

“Maybe he thought you were blaming him. Everyone gets a little touchy after.”

“Guess so. Or maybe he was talking about Gigi. ” Sergio chuckles, changing into a new white dress shirt, facing away from Iker to look into the mirror. The material is fine enough that under the lights it’s nearly translucent. Iker could see dark splashes from Sergio’s new back tattoo - inspired by his trip to the Grand canyon with Pilar, he said. Iker didn’t particularly like it. The tattoo had appeared on television one day, an unexpected, unpleasant jolt to go with the predicted mix of emotions that always came with watch Real Madrid highlights. Suddenly there was a part of Sergio that Iker didn’t know, that he’d never traced his lips over and laid claim to.

He sticks his hand into what feels like a noose, and for a moment wonders if Xavi had arranged for the Barcelona players to sneak something into his bag. Revenge for years of trying to get Xavi in trouble with customs agents. After tugging out the soft figure-eights of rope in confusion, he tosses them aside in annoyance, coils of jewel-tone material pooling on the armchair. 

Sergio’s eyes narrow and he says levelly, “Careful, they’re the good shit.” Iker rolls his eyes; the ropes weren’t exactly fragile.

“What are you going to do?” Sergio asks.

“Me? Why is it up to me?!” he says, a little sharper than he intended. He sees Sergio bite his lip to hide his smile. Iker’s annoyance flares. There was no need for Sergio to act like he was being a teenager. To make light of the fact that Iker had had to go through this whole cycle with a manager, again. Feeling frozen out from one’s role without a word while the manager publicly claimed he was doing the opposite. And this time it was someone he’d trusted for years.

“Why do I think you should do something?” Sergio tilts his head in consideration. “I think you’re both proud men, who think of each other as family. Neither of you wants to admit he might have made a mistake,” he says, the gentle tone at odds with the assessing look on his face. “And he’s not going to make the first move. So I think it’s up to you- if you want things with Mister to end like this.”

Iker finally finds a rolled up navy blue cardigan, crammed into a corner of his carry-on. “I was trying today!” he says tartly. 

“He was raw. We were all raw.” He answers calmly. “Try again,”

Iker thinks back, and turns to stare. “Do you think this is all my fault?” Sergio had been listening to him vent for months, and had always responded with understanding words and soothing murmurs.

Sergio shakes his head. “No, I don’t, but that doesn’t really change anything. I think you’re both stubborn old men.” Iker’s pulse beats in his ears, the words too close to what El Mister said. Someone thought he knew everything since winning a shiny trophy as captain.

“You’re not really one to talk about fighting with managers,” not even sure which example he wants to toss out.

Sergio’s brow furrows “Well, you haven’t exactly been helping the situation, have you,” he says coolly.

Sergio had never been afraid of an argument, but Iker doesn’t think he would have spoken like this to him last year. He wonders if he would have before today, even. Before Gigi.  
.  
Iker turns on his heel.“You ready?”

Sergio rolls his eyes and grabs his own blazer. “Wallet,” He reminds Iker.

They’d had a system, back in Madrid. Iker didn’t like to be pushed to talk before he was ready. He needed to brood when he was troubled. And Sergio would wait it out, reassuring him with wordless touches that he was there. When Iker was ready he’d come to Sergio’s room, or find him on the pitch, and start talking about nothing. Eventually he’d filter in what had been bothering him. 

But ever since they’d seen each other again at Valdebebas, Sergio had been staying close even by his affectionate standards, as close as Iker would let him.

Rushing the system wasn’t working very well.

Iker leans against the elevator wall, arms crossed. “It wasn’t that I minded not getting the starts, I told you that. I didn’t like the way they handled it.” He says quietly. “But I can admit that I wouldn’t have been thrilled no matter what. I don’t know a footballer alive who doesn’t want to hold on as long as possible. On top of that, I’m a goalie- holding on even at the last possible moment is my job,” he tries joking. Sergio twists one of his rings around and around his finger. Iker thinks of Madrid and how he’d felt for so long that if he just outlasted the storm it would all work out. Till battered and bruised, he let go. “I guess I hold onto things too tightly.”

Sergio’s quiet for a moment, eyes hooded as Iker watches him out of the corner of his eye. “Most things anyway.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

“It’s just been… a lot.” In a way Iker felt like he’d barely caught a breath since he left Madrid for Porto nearly a year before. Even lte in the season he had moments where he could tell he was still adjusting to the Portuguese league. Let alone everything else.

“I know.” 

Marrying Sara as privately as they could manage it. Lucas’s birth and all the emotions accompanying a new baby. Becoming so angry with Del Bosque and the coaching staff that he barely spoke to them. Not wanting to put Sergio, his vice captain let alone anything else, in the middle of it. 

And Sergio’s year had started in turmoil and slowly become incandescent. It was somehow harder to talk about football once things stabilized under Zizou and the team came together. And Iker felt an awkwardness when talking about Sara and his children that he’d never felt before- their arrangement years ago absorbing Iker’s relationship with Sara and then Sergio’s with Pilar with an ease he was still grateful for.

If only they a few more days. Eventually he would have snapped, Sergio would have snapped back, and it would all have ended with them curled around each other in bed. But now-

“There just hasn’t been any time.” He gestures vaguely. 

“We could have had time, “ Sergio says flatly, gazing straight ahead.

Sergio had called him up, brimming with excitement, and invited Iker and the whole family to rent a private place with them in Mallorca for a week. One of Pilar’s favorite vacation spots, he said. Great for families. They could take a private jet and no one would even know they were there.

Iker had said he’d ask Sara, already thinking she probably wouldn’t be very interested in a beach house only a month after post-birth, after being away from family and friends all year. Because she’d packed up her whole life to go with Iker to Porto. 

He’d brought it up casually to Sara, no pressure, and she’d reminded him of her parents’ anniversary celebration in Corral de Almaguer that week. She’d smiled happily at the offer though. Maybe it would be perfect after all the madcap energy of the anniversary celebration. So Iker had told Sergio they could maybe come afterwards. Which would have given them two days there.

Sergio curtly told him not to bother and hung up abruptly. It was a week before tentative texts were exchanged, messages of luck going back and forth for the late season matches.

Iker huffs a breath. “That wasn’t about you.”

Sergio looks into the corner of the elevator. “Yeah.” He seems to take up more room in the elevator than a minute before, and Iker’s lifetime of instincts are telling him a card is coming.

Sergio had always asked – demanded- much from the world as if it was his due. 

Iker wants to shout, don’t I deserve some space? He bites it back.  
“Make space up your ass!” would be the response if he was lucky. Something harder to unsay if he wasn’t. And he hadn’t felt very lucky lately.

The cab drive is silent. Iker hopes the driver puts it down to the game.

~~~

Gigi greets Iker with another fond smile, another head clasp. In an instant Sergio matches Gigi smile for smile and twinkling eye for twinkling eye. 

“It’s always a pleasure to see you,” Gigi says “whatever the circumstances,” addressing both though Iker’s pretty sure Gigi and Sergio have never carried on a full conversation alone.

Iker taps at Gigi’s chest. “I prefer seeing you after a win,” he says, poking his sternum for good measure, “then I feel taller than you. After a loss I remember that I’m not.” 

The tall Italian inclines his head in mock-apology. “I get that a lot. It must be very hard.” He lifts his glass of wine, excellent, as is to be expected in France, even if Iker privately prefers beer. “ On the other hand, being shorter than you makes me feel younger.”

“Whatever I can do to help. So, I understand you are more young and virile than ever!”

“So… I hear?” Iker laughs, amused and a little self-conscious. Sergio smiles around the table in a conversationally supportive and completely meaningless way.

“I mean to say, congratulations on the birth of your son. Tanti augari.” Gigi raises his glass

Iker’s smile softens. “ Thank you” he nods. He raises his in return, and they toast.

Sergio tilts his empty glass in Gigi’s direction and uses it to gesture a mild reproach. “And don’t forget, he got married as well. Marriage and a baby. The wilderness of Portugal is turning him into a real man.”

Gigi, to Iker’s relief, doesn’t even blink. “Yes, of course.” Another round is poured. It’s probably a waste to drink good wine so quickly but Iker appreciates the warmth in his belly. “Evviva gli sposi! 

Iker glances over. No hint of passive-aggression; Sergio is just airing the elephant in the room, bringing it up because Iker probably wouldn’t.

Gigi tells them proudly that the marble in the bathroom is almost certainly a product of Carrara (his hometown) It wouldn’t exactly be a shock- national teams tend to stay in sumptuous establishments- but Gigi claims he recognized the look of the exact quarry in the line and color of the stone.

 

As Gigi describes several famous buildings and pieces of art known to have used Carrara marble, Sergio glances over at him, perhaps sensing Iker’s preoccupation. To hear Gigi tell it, Carrara is responsible for must of the impressiveness of the Roman Empire. Sergio politely inquires after the best locations for holiday sightseeing; he would like to get a selfie with a bust of Cicero, from whom he took a quote for one of his many tattoos.

All Iker had wanted was to sit with Gigi and not have to pretend anymore. But sitting and listening to Gigi and Sergio practice the art of pleasant but empty social chitchat is the last thing he’s in the mood for. Sergio keeps looking over, surprised at his silence.

The smile Sergio gave him the day before his wedding flashes into his mind, as it had randomly since March. Sending Iker off to get quietly married at the courthouse with a smack on the ass for luck. Nothing but supportive. And it replayed through Iker’s head at the strangest times. On the bus with Miguel stealing his armrest. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for in the memory. Some hint of anger or disquiet he hadn’t wanted to look for at the time perhaps, because deep down he still wondered if he could muster half as much grace if Sergio married Pilar.

They managed to keep news of the wedding quiet for a week. Till the morning they woke up with the story splashed everywhere- the morning of Sergio’s birthday. 

 

Fifteen minutes later, Iker zones in and out of the conversation going on around him. Apparently the only thing more tiresome than meaningless social chitchat was vigorous debate over something Iker cared little about.

Gigi had told Sergio he couldn’t sit through Braveheart (Sergio’s favorite film) without getting distracted by the soundtrack. It was, he said, taken from another famous piece (Iker didn’t give a damn and hadn’t caught the name, though Sergio’s brow had furrowed as if personally hurt). And so Gigi had spent most of the movie trying to remember which one. From the subtle glint in his eye, Iker half suspects him of inventing it just to wind Sergio up. Sergio is just beginning to gather steam on how good music was meant to travel and pick up soulfulness from everywhere it touched (or something, Iker had long since associated Sergio prattling on about music with afternoon siesta) when the waiter arrives. 

 

After trying a taster of the waiter’s choice of wine, Gigi sends it back with much charm and joviality, managing to make fun of his own fussiness while still insisting on another choice. Iker leans over to Sergio, “Taking notes on how to charm referees?” Somehow the waiter leaves feeling better about himself than before, clearly ready to visit a hundred vineyards himself if that’s what it takes to please Gianluigi Buffon. 

As soon as he’s out of sight Gigi leans over the table with huge cow eyes. He stage-whispers, “It’s been ten years!!”

A smile tugs at Iker’s face. “ You suspect sabotage?” he says drily.

“Well, they need all the help they can get,” Gigi answers, still whispering, “I always liked what Andrea said- if there is a God there’s no way he’s French!”

They all chuckle – muted, as if in a library.  
“I read his book,” Sergio says. “I liked where he said it’s better than sex because if you’re failure it’s not just your fault.” He I guess if you play like Andrea Pirlo, it could be better than sex.”  
Gigi laughs. “I think we all like that one- defenders, goaltenders alike. I’ve always said you have to be masochist to be a goalie.”

“When I started playing a ball smacked me in the face. It hurt but it was a good feeling at the same time.” Iker says.

Sergio reaches over and pinches his cheek, the possessive touch irritating Iker more than the bite of it. “A masochist?” he says waggling his eyebrows. “Who would guess. You’re so pale you bruise if you fall into your posts wrong.”

Iker twists his head away, and turns back to Gigi. “You’re right,” he smiles at him, “There is something perverse in being a goalie. The smack of a ball means success. You have to like falling on the ground constantly. You’re helpless to help your teams score.”

Sergio says, “I guess that’s why every goaltender I know is bossy as hell. You’re always shouting at everyone.” 

Iker frowns. “You have to come to terms with that helplessness. Goaltenders have to stay disciplined. We can’t leave our posts become a striker in the last ten minutes to fix our mistakes.”

Sergio stiffens and looks over at him with surprise and slight hurt. Iker isn’t sure whether he meant it as a personal dig or a general comment, but he doesn’t feel like taking it back.

Gigi looks deep into his wineglass, watching it swirl slowly.  
“You could always take penalty kicks.” He says, like an afterthought. “I heard you and Pepe Reina had a wager over who could score more on the other?”

~~~

The Maitre D’ glides into the vicinity, trailed by their clearly distressed waiter. Furiously contrite, he explains there had been a mistake regarding the reservations. There are, Iker is given to understand, Very Important People coming who expect the alcove for themselves. He has a idle interest in simply moving elsewhere in the restaurant, smartphones and their hidden cameras be-damned, just to see who had bumped them down the pecking order. After all, it was a relatively rare occurrence these days. Nevertheless, Gigi’s suggestion of moving to his suite upstairs is quickly agreed upon.

“But I should check my floor. Let’s avoid running into most of my compatriots in the hallway at once. If they are running back and forth like children I’ll scare them into their beds. I have been told I have intimidating eyebrows.”

Sergio grins. “I’ll tell Gigio you said that him.”

Gigi huffs. “I could be describing half the team, wasn’t even thinking of Gigio. Have another drink at the bar while I make my rounds and say goodnight. I’ll let you know when the coast is clear. Fifteen minutes or so.”

Sergio springs up “Actually, I think I’m going to walk up and see the Basilica.” 

Iker gives him a baffled look, but Gigi seems to know what he means. “I’ve seen it from our windows. You can get to it easily from here?”

“ It’s like two blocks away, I think. I’ll check,” and he immediately opens a map App on his phone.

Gigi heads upstairs after a hand on Iker’s shoulder that turns into a caress. Thankfully not seen by Sergio.

*** 

The Basilica sits on the only hill around, rising out of an island of dense foliage. Sergio walks briskly enough that Iker has to pay attention not to be left behind. To Sergio’s disappointment, the park gates are shut, having closed at sundown. They turn back in the direction they came, the sound of crickets accompanying their walk down the gentle slope, before Sergio breaks the silence.

“ Are you mad at me?”

“What for?” Iker asks warily. He wasn’t mad, exactly. Just needed some space.

“For playing.” Sergio answers quietly. “For taking over as captain of Madrid. Of Spain.” After a moment, “For winning without you.”

Iker’s mind blanks like televisions as he remembers them in childhood, ostensibly switched on but with nothing to show for it for a minute but static. He genuinely had never thought Sergio might interpret his behavior that way. He gathers his thoughts together like cards strewn on a table.

“When I became captain of Spain, when Raul didn’t get called up, , he was good to me. He looked me in the eye and told me I’d be a great captain. He could have been difficult, and made it awkwrd for us to be at the same club. But he wasn’t.”

“I remember. That wasn’t really an answer to my question though. Can- can you just punch me, or something? Like if I stole your wife?”

“She’s seen everything you have to offer.” He parries automatically. “Would never happen.”

“Iker.”

“I’m thinking.”

They reach the entrance to the busy section of town the glow of the street like the mouth of a cave. He should take a picture for instagram, he thinks idly, and pulls out his phone. Sergio raises his eyebrows. 

He thinks of the coltish young man he first met the week of his nineteenth birthday, already brimming with personality and possibility. The young man he’d looked after when he arrived in Amdrid soon after, that he nagged and encouraged and who’s teasing he bore with forbearance and secret enjoyment. The baby of the team who’d become the veteran over the years, till he rescued them all. No, he realized with some relief, he wasn’t angry at Sergio. 

“No, I don’t think so.” He says quietly. “I get mad about not playing, when I think about it. I feel like I’m meant to be out there.

 

“No. I don’t think so anyway.” He says quietly. “I get mad about not playing sometimes. Even if I should, it happens. I feel like I’m meant to be out there. But no… I don’t resent you for it.” He feels the relief on Sergio’s face like a jab in the gut. He knows it’s a lucky thing that he is in a different league,that there was only so much of Real Marid he could deal with at the moment. But he’d never been bitter towards Segio about it, had never wanted Sergio to be less than his potential. “I’m proud of you.”

Under the streetlight, Sergio’s face looks embarrassed, overwhelmed overwhelmed. As if Iker hadn’t said it many times over the years. He had, especially in the early years. It hadn’t seemed necessary lately, once Sergio had come into his own. But maybe, right now, it was. Sergio’s eyes look huge in his face, everything he feels there for Iker to read. He sees him process the information, and then the look of confusion. Suddenly Iker wants very much to avoid this line of questioning, can’t bear to have Sergio ask “Why-” not with those eyes.

“We should head back.” Sergio hesitates and opens his mouth to speak. Then he exhales and nods. He lets Iker lead them back in silence.

When Iker spies a convenience store and suggests picking up something, Sergio excuses himself to call Pilar. Iker the convenience store proprietor recognizes Iker, he gives to sign of it. He does give Iker a strange look for buying red wine and coca-cola and nothing more. Iker tries to keep the bag between his body and Sergio’s as they walk through the lobby, irrationally sure he’d about to be scolded loudly by the staff. He wonders what stories the media would (and might still) put together about it all.

 

In the elevator, Sergio suddenly hits the stop button.

Iker starts. “I’m not having sex with you here.” Sergio doesn’t even smile. Iker feels panic curdling the buzz from the wine and the warm night air.

“Are we just not going to talk until Madrid?” 

 

Iker sighs. “I don’t want to get into a fight.”

He wants to tell him something, anything that will make him feel better but what can he possibly say.

Gingerly, he says “I’m sorry about not coming to Mallorca.”

Sergio taps on the waist-level gold handbars to his right. “It’s not about-” he sighs, not helping Iker’s strange unease. Sergio rubs his face. “It wasn’t exactly easy to get Pilar to agree to share our family vacation.” he mutters, half swallowed up by his fingers. 

“ I know.” Iker says, barely manging to keep the edge out of his voice. He’s suddenly boiling with nervous energy. “But… we have a newborn.” He wonders whether anyone has noticed the elevator stuck on one floor. Sergio is motionless. “You know I love you.”

“I know. I love you too. That’s really not the issue.” 

Iker suddenly thinks he might throw up. He stabs the elevator button forcefully. He tries to remember when he’d last eaten French food, and if it had turned into a stone in his stomach then too.

Sergio reaches over slowly, and smoothes the hair on his forehead, the part that always sticks up.

“Don’t,” Iker pleads, not even sure what he’s asking for. 

“You really think that will help?” Sergio says sadly, almost smiling. He sighs. “’Cause the whole not talking thing hasn’t really been working out well for you lately.”

Iker glances at him, annoyed, with a thousand things to say, enough to choke on.

Sergio watches him, and then nods once, as if Iker had told him everything after all.

The elevator dings as they reach the correct floor. 

Gigi pops into view like a marionette a moment later, with a bright “Ciao”.

Iker wrestles with the bag from the convenience store as Sergio hangs up his jacket. As he passes Iker to join Gigi in the living room area, he leans over to give him a kiss, whisper-light, at the very corner of his cheek. 

Iker misses him so much all of a sudden he nearly shakes with it.  
Even though Sergio is right there, he feels the ache of every time he woke in the middle of the night having out of a dream of fighting with Sergio, like he always had when he went more than a week without seeing him. The sense of loss when he came awake in some strange hotel on away trips. His bed with Sara always carried the faint smell of her nighttime moisturizer. For so long, waking in a bed without it meant Sergio would be there. All over Portugal he would wake up with an arm flung across the bed, grasping at air.

He joins the others. He’s ready to drink a whole bottle or five. 

 

Iker can’t remember exactly what he said to Isco when he’d first posted a video of himself and a few others playing what Iker came to learn was called Bottle Flip. But he knows it was over text, playfully insulting, and that Isco will gleefully produce if it comes to light that Iker Casillas does, in fact, play the game. In fact, he believes himself to be quite good. Consideration must simply be taken for the amount of water in the bottle, and it was almost easy. 

Or so he tells Gigi, who has never played before. 

Gigi throws himself into it with his expected concentration and humour. Helped by what Iker calls beginner’s luck and Gigi calls hand-eye coordination, they go a very competetive dozen round before Sergio dents the bottom of the bottle irreparably when he tries a juggling move behind his back and it lands on the corner of the coffee table.

 

Sergio picks up the now useless bottle and tries to play keepy-uppy. After the second muttered “Ow” and Iker’s alarmed look, Gigi produces an orange-sized stress ball, inked like a football, and tosses it towards Sergio instead. 

Tipsy or not, the hero of La Decima makes contact squarely on his forehead, sending it ricocheting to his right, where it hits the window with impressive slam. Clearly, even with a ball made out of foam, Sergio‘s headers have some power. Iker nearly chokes on his drink when he sees Gigi’s expression.

“The Italian football federation will not pay for it if you destory my window. If you break it, I will tie you up to my goal and let me team take early morning target practice, I swear I will.” He says, shaking his finger like the proverbial Italian nonna.

Sergio gurgles, wine and flirtatious ribbing and laughter flushing him pink. “Is that what you threaten to your teammates to keep them in line, or am I special?” he says with playful vanity. “Besides, it wouldn’t work.”

“What, for making you behave? We could try.” Iker says carelessly. Gigi is looking in Sergio’s direction; he puts his feet up on the table. “Been dreaming of it for years, and now I’ll have help.” 

“What?” Sergio gives him a wide-eyed look of shock that seems rather out of proportion for what Iker just said. Oh god, what wrong thing had he said now. “You should have told me!”

“I never yelled it out during a game?” Iker asks, lazily rolling his empty glass between his palms. The glass is smooth and cool. It feels wonderful. He’s not sure what Sergio is getting at but apparently he’s off the hook.

“Nooo.” Sergio throws himself back and then halfway down seems to go into slow-motion. His shirt has become untucked. Iker tilts his head to watch the muscles hold fast. “I would have remembered. I would have mentioned it later. Dude. I’ve had that fantasy for how long?”

It takes Iker a moment, but when he catches up the buzz goes through him like an electric charge. “Really?” He twists over to try and see Sergio’s face.

“Mmm hmm.” Sergio stretches his arm out sideways and then moves it back towards his other hand, as if he’s making a one-armed snow angel in the carpet. “And that was just one of you.” He tilts his head over to Gigi. “Don’t mind him either

Well, damn. Iker couldn’t even remember at this particular instant which year it was where they had become familiar with the very discrete rope dojo in Madrid and it’s excellent instructors. 

His face battling between lascivious interest and a veneer of seemliness, Gigi looked between them with raised eyebrows. He wasn’t holding back any prurient curiosity for Iker’s delicate sensibilities, Iker knew - and he giggles at the thought of Gigi doing it for Sergio, one of the most brazen people Iker had ever met. “.You… have a fantasy of being strung up by goaltenders for your sins?” 

Fuck. Iker hears Sergio’s loud laugh over his own rather breathless one. Sergio flips onto his belly and smiles at Gigi, playful yet lecherous, hands under his chin like a cat with folded paws.

“Nah. I have a fantasy of being suspended on a goal net and fucked there.” Gigi goes for playing nonchalant and ends up overshooting and striking a pose of boredom. Iker bites the web of his hands to keep himself quiet.

“Is that doable? 

“Oh, probably.” Sergio says flopping over onto his back again. “There’s the posts and the frame. The nets are tough, plus your weight would be distributed.” 

“I was wondering more how a person would be… attached.” Gigi asks, now a picture of purely intellectual curiosity.

“Oh, you'd need real ropes for sure.” Iker pipes up “The net's threading is too fine, it would probably cause damage if you used it to tie a person. Doesn't always work well when you fuck around doing something the material wasn't meant for.” He grins at Sergio. 

Sergio laughs, a real laugh, loud and musical, warming Iker as it always does. 

He and Sergio and Cesc after the World Cup. Discovering that as the dawn approached, Cesc's wrists wrapped in a Spanish flag that between champagne and sweat and their own drunken clumsy fingers no one could untie, so they had to go hunting for scissors, Cesc looking terrified when one of them, he couldn't remember who, unearthed a Swiss Army knife. Looking back it was a miracle they hadn’t end up cut him as he'd feared, given their general state at the time.

Back when he and Cesc were together, before different cities and different teams and different paths made the reasons for breaking up were louder than the reasons to stay together. 

But while their lives had intersected that had still been distinctly separate. That separateness broke them up it had also made the moving on easier. And now, somehow still friends, able to enjoy what they were today, without that being drowned out by what they weren’t any more. 

He and Sergio hadn’t felt like separate lives. It had felt like their life, a singular thing. Their casual but enduring liaison so easy that it couldn’t be love, until there was nothing else to call it.

A hearty laugh pulls him away from his memories. 

He must have been deeper in thought that he knew, because he hadn’t even registered Sergio standing before Gigi, showing him with teasing touches exactly where to tie a length of rope for a full body suspension. At first glance, in his white button-up he looks like a louche junior executive. 

Iker nods in Sergio’s direction. “He doesnt bruise easily.” He murmurs. 

“How drunk are you?” he breaks in. Sergio’s eyes meet his. They glitter. “How drunk are you?” They look at each other, questions silently asked and answered in ten seconds. Sergio nods, then smiles. As one, they turn at look Gigi’s way.

“There’s a lot you can do with ropes without even attaching to anything else in the room…”

***

Iker slips into his hotel room feeling absurdly like a teenage sneaking home late, hoping to not get caught tiptoeing past his parents’ bedroom door. As soon as he quietly shuts the door to his room, weariness crashes into him like a wave. He stumbles around the room looking for his bag in frustration for nearly a minute before he remembers to turn on the central light. 

He switches on the little hotel room coffee maker. While it bubbles, he sits on the bed and just breathes. In, out. In, out. When he rises, more serene, he gathers each item from a familiar mental checklist. 

 

When Gigi lets him back in, Sergio is on the couch with a pillow in his lap, his energy quiet. That’s unusual enough around people he doesn’t know well to bring Iker up short for a moment. He wonders what they talked about. On second thought, he doesn’t really want to know. When Sergio sees him his eyes light up, the reaction automatic but no less warm for that. He climbs off the couch and tosses the pillow to the opposite corner. Iker spies a nearly empty water bottle on the side table. Good.

Iker stands uncomfortably, unsure whether to head straight for the bedroom or join Sergio in the living room and delay the reason they’re there.

Sergio solves the problem for Iker by walking backwards towards the bedroom door, beckoning with his index finger like a mischievous teenager luring his companions into trouble. Gigi chuckles and follows. There’s a chair in the corner with a hoodie and some sweatpants draped over it. 

Sergio sidles up to Gigi and lays an inquiring hand on his chest. Gigi glances over at Iker, who nods. Sergio runs his hand down Gigi’s chest till he reaches his belt buckle. He tugs Gigi’s shirt out of his pants then pauses as if he has suddenly forgotten what comes next. Or he’d hit the limit of his will to drive this.

“Take off his shirt.” Iker’s voice is gruff; he clears it. He eases himself into the chair and hooks a foot over the side table. Sergio goes for Gigi’s top button. Iker’s skin prickles at Sergio’s instant obedience. “That was for Gigi. Nene, let him look at you.” Gigi strips Sergio of his shirt and pants, movements focused and unhurried, till Sergio stands clad only in brief shorts that conceal absolutely nothing. 

When Gigi traces the waistband Iker desire and possessiveness intertwines low in his belly. It’s warmth chased by a mild burn, like good brandy, pleasantly stimulating. 

Sergio looks over at him like he senses it. He gives Iker the crinkly- eyed smile reserved only for him. Then he nods his head the direction of the temporarily forgotten bag. Iker unknots the rope and passes it through his fingers, checking for splinters or frays. Teal cotton, soft and practically warm to the touch.

Sergio reaches for one end, fingers brushing Iker’s with an electric zing. He murmurs to Gigi, “Let me show you,” slowly wrapping the Italian’s wrists. Gigi’s face changes from sexual anticipation to intellectual curiosity. On his third attempt, and several curses in Italian, he succeeds in binding Sergio’s hands in front of him.

Gigi tugs on it experimentally He could probably get out if he really wanted to- Iker had long learned that Sergio would crawl out of the ropes just to prove a point if Iker left a tie loose enough to do so. Gigi loops the ropes around his hands and tugs again. Sergio braces himself and leans against the pull, grinning. Gigi calls him something Iker doesn’t catch, voice teasing and affectionate.  
Gigi closes the distance between them in a second and picks him up, hoisting Sergio up on either side of his hips. 

The noise Iker makes is lost under Sergio’s louder expression of surprise. Iker stares as Gigi tosses Sergio onto the bed and crawls up after him. His pants begin to feel a little tight. It’s rare to see Sergio next to someone who looks bigger than him, and Sergio clearly appreciates it, laughing and writhing under Gigi to get him to hold him down. 

But when Sergio shoves hard enough to flip Gigi and reverse their positions, Iker has a moment of trepidation. There’s a wildness to his movements that tells Iker that Sergio isn’t in a mood to hold back his strength or aggression. Iker wonders how close to the edge he really is.

“Enough.” He orders. Both men freeze. Iker can’t even recall off the top of his head when the last time was he had given Sergio what he needed like this. He walks to the foot of the bed carrying the second rope. Synthetic, cool and silky to the touch, a reassuring sturdiness to it.

Sergio inhales when Iker draws the rope down his back. Iker strips off his shirt quickly, watching Gigi watch him. He kneels behind Sergio, pulling him tight against his body. Sergio lets out a sound that goes right through Iker.

He hands Gigi the purple rope. “Can you unwind this please?”

Sergio’s body is thrumming with energy. Iker presses the heel of his palm all over the front and side of Sergio’ chest, closer to a massage than a caress, the other arm wrapped around his waist. 

They wrap Sergio through teammwork, passing the purple rope back and forth till it coils around Sergio’s body, with two ropes passing over his shoulders to meet in the center of his back. One hand he binds easily to the ropes under his shoulder-blade, the other –the bad shoulder- he leaves free. The remainder of the ropes, he twists around the shoulder ropes to make a firm handle.

He pats Sergio on the ass to get him to crawl up the bed. Meanwhile, Gigi looks him over. “You’re wearing too many clothes.” He reaches over and presses hand to the front of Iker’s pants. He can’t contain a small noise. Gigi strokes him slowly, hand hot through the layers. 

In unspoken agreement they swiftly remove their remaining items of clothing. Sergio snuggles up against Gigi’s shoulder, petting his shoulder, bicep, abs. 

Iker’s eyes meet Gigi’s and there’s a strange hesitation, a shyness in anticipation of their first kiss. His stubble prickles Iker’s fingers. His mouth is soft. Until it becomes harder, more demanding. Iker should breath but he wants to take in as much of the moment as possible, pulling him close with his full arm.

As he breaks the kiss, a sharp bite of teeth demands his attention. Not hard enough to break the skin, but hard enough to make a point. Sergio rubs soothing circles into Iker’s shoulders, but his eyes are dead serious. Do it on your own time, Iker can read as clear as day. 

He has new lines and creases since Iker saw him in the spring. Sergio’ s hair falls nearly into his eyes. Iker brushes it off his forehead. He needs a haircut. Sergio turns his head and presses a kiss right in the very center of his palm, and then looks back at Iker, his eyes like hot coals. 

Iker’s throat is full of glass shards. It feels like he’s already looking at Sergio from far away- except he isn’t. Iker grabs Sergio by the back of his head, by his stupid hair, and nearly drags him towards him. 

Familiar and warm and summoning the hunger time never manages to satisfy, only reinforce. He could kiss him forever but he pulls back, needing everything at once, needing to see Sergio as well as taste him. He touches his thumb to the side of Sergio’s mouth, where he smiles. 

There are lost of things Iker can’t do. But he can give Sergio what he needs.

“I think I’d like to frogtie you.” Iker says. Sergio shrugs, as if with infidifference, like he could handle anything Iker threw at him. It’s as good as a yes.

Gigi looks on, curious again, as Iker binds calf to thigh on each side, with a length of rope passing though the handle near Sergio’s neck, so that Iker can pull them even wider open. He could leave him like this, on his front and exposed, but why not take advantage of the extra set of hands.

They manage to maneuver him upright till on his weight, minus their support, is teetering on his knees. Sergio’s eyes widen. “Do you trust me?” Iker asks quietly. Sergio tenses involuntarily and consciously relaxes, trying to ignore the instinct that says he is going to topple over. Iker challenges him further when he says “Catch.” and sends Sergio forward into Gigi, who barely braces himself in time. They hold each other, neither seeming willing to move, as Iker brings the tote bag over from the chair to the nightstand, retrieving lube and condoms. 

Iker drizzles the lube over one hand, clenching his fist to warm it. Then, with Gigi’s help, he eases Sergio’s weight back towards him, nudging Sergio’s knees apart so they straddle Iker’s lap.

Sergio sighs, his head rolling back onto Iker’s shoulder. Iker presses a kiss to his bared throat, and braces himself as Sergio slackens completely

Gigi looks almost concerned. Sergio must look like he’s lost consciousness completely. But he hasn’t; he’s squeezing Iker’s calf with his unbound hand.

“Touch him.” Iker commands. Gigi goes hunting for the lube, which fell off the bed when Iker wasn’t looking. It’s a tight squeeze, but he manages to fit his hand between himself and Sergio and reach between his knees. He groans and the proprietary touch. Hand slick, he explores without friction or pressure, fingering the crack of Sergio’s ass one moment, circling his balls the next. Sergio’s hips undulate, craving something more than a tease. Iker smacks his thigh for it, and gets another groan.

Gigi strokes Sergio’s cock from root to tip, punching another of those desperate sounds from Sergio’s mouth. “Slower.” Iker says quietly. Sergio’s hole pulses against his hand. He presses with one finger just to see how ready he is, and gets taking in up to the second knuckle. “Fuck.” He exhales into Sergio’s neck. Sergio shivers.

Gigi strokes Sergio in time with Iker’s rubbing him inside. Sergio quickly relaxed enough to take two fingers. Gigi keeps eye contact with Iker the whole time, till Iker find he’s trembling, rock hard without a hand on his cock.

“Fuck him.” He orders huskily. He eases Sergio back further till his head lies in Iker’s lap (he grabs a pillow for Sergio’s to place over his lap, sorry Gigi), careful of pressure on arm. Iker places hand gently over  
Sergio’s throat. His cock jerks.

Gigi grabs a condom and lube, crawls between Sergio’s legs and lines himself up. He pushes slowly, carefully, inside him. If his hand wasn’t right over the base of this throat Iker would barely hear the low moan Sergio makes. Gigi closes his eyes at the tight heat of it of him Sergio turns his head so that his lips rest against Iker’s soft inner arm.

Gigi rolls his hips steadily against Sergio’s hips. Iker traces his face and chest with his free hand, petting Sergio’s chest with the other. Gigi comes with a pleased groan, jerking his hips as Iker watches, hungry.

Sergio sighs but gives no other signs of awareness when Gigi pulls out. As Gigi deals with the condom, Iker taps his clean fingers gently against Sergio’s lips. “You still with me?” Sergio half-opens his eyes and takes Iker’s fingers into his mouth, suckling softly. 

Iker extricates himself from under Sergio, leaving him with the pillow under his head. “Help me,” he murmurs to Gigi, who helps him unwind the thick rope from Sergio’s chest, freeing his arms. Iker rubs them to make the change of position more comfortable, so impatient that he’s rougher than he means to be. Iker needs to be inside him yesterday.

Sergio looks up as Iker sinks into him. His face is completely tranquil, everything washed away by strength of his submission to Iker. Sergio looks at him- has always looked at him – like there’s nothing Iker could say or do that would make Sergio stop loving him. He hides nothing from Iker and sees right through him, sees everything. No noone will ever ever love him the way that Sergio loves him and dear god, what will he do without him? 

Sergio wraps his arms around him, clumsy and greedy with touch. Iker leans down. Sergio is too spaced out to kiss back, but he opens his mouth for Iker to taste. 

Iker shakes too much to build up much of a rhythm. He buries himself in Sergio’s neck, whispering nonsense that Sergio can’t understand anyway.

He feels Gigi’s hand stroking his neck lovingly, and cries out before he bites his lip hard. He won’t last much longer. He leans as close to Sergio as he can. “Nene? Nene, come now. “ He grasps Sergio’s cock. Gigi’s hand brushes through his hair and he shivers. “Come for me, Nene”. 

Sergi’s whole body goes taut but he doesn’t make a sound. When he feels Sergio clenching around him, Iker tumbles over the edge after him.

He comes back to himself slowly, limbs rubbery, but rolls off, not wanting to make it harder for Sergio to breath. Every speck of colour found in Sergio’s tattoos seems to glow. 

 

“Can you help me take these off him? And pass the wet wipes??” he asks. Iker kisses Sergio softly, cleaning him off. “Hey there.” Sergio nuzzles him back, eyes sleepy and peaceful. “Just taking the ropes off.” Gigi begins to unbind Sergio’s leg. Sergio sticks his tongue out. Iker laughs. “I know, I know, it hurts.” He mutters, “Try and remember you’re the one who likes pain.”

They switch, Gigi rubbing his chest while Iker removes the ropes on other leg. He kisses each line of red as it’s revealed. Sergio hisses and swears- muscle cramp creates a misshapen rock of flesh on his other leg, the renewed blood flow only heightening the pain. Iker cradles his head and croons to him.

After overing Sergio with a blanket Iker shows Gigi how to coil the ropes again. Sitting on either side of Sergio, Iker is sure he’s talking a mile a minute. “Is he alright?” Gigi asks. Iker grins; he doubts he’s ever seen Sergio so quiet. He might not have believed it possible.

“He’s gonna be pretty out of it for a while. That’s normal.” He pulls Gigi in for a kiss. “And I like a lot of affection. That’s normal for me.” He grins. Already he can feel the need to stay as close as possible licking at his heels, like hysteria at the outer edge of laughter. 

They settle into bed again, Gigi kneading Sergio’s hand as they pass passing a Gatorade back and forth over him. Iker can’t stop touching him, knows there’s nothing he can do that let him feel close enough tonight. “Should we wake him and give him some?” No, he’s fine for now. Iker responds without even thinking about it and then as moment to check what that’ based on. But Sergio’s chest is rising and falling evenly, his jaw is relaxed and not grinding his teeth from stress. “He’s had a full day. We can wake him in an hour or so. Let him rest for now”.

He hesitates, then drives forward while he still has the energy to talk about it. “We might not see each other at call-ups anymore. The new manager, whoever he is. He might- he’ll probably want to bring along some of the younger Spanish goalies.” Iker traces his finger over Sergio’s clavicle. There’s suppose to be relief in saying aloud what you fear, right?

Gigi brushes the back of his long fingers over Iker’s. He doesn’t say anything for a while. Eventually, he tucks Sergio’s hand against himself as steals Iker’s. “You know, I had some trouble at the same age that you are now. I think there are two stages in the life of a goaltender.” He grabs Iker’s index finger. “The first is when we survive on talent. On instinct.” He studies Iker’s face. “It is my humble opinion that you have the greatest instincts in a goaltender I have ever seen.” He quirks a smile. “And then there is the goalie’s second life. The reflexes slow down, but there’s so much more experience.” He pokes Iker’s chest. “It is not a bad thing to last long enough to be the second one. Especially when you, damn you, also have more experience in big games than almost anyone alive. Just my luck to play at the same time as you.” 

Iker’s face feels red. “No.” He tightens his fingers around Gigi’s. “It was definitely my luck.” Sergio twitches. Iker presses a kiss under his ear to quieten him, the tattoo giving him a familiar target. “ I still think I can contribute, if they actually give me a chance to play.”

“And if they don’t give you the chance to play, what will you do?”

“Do my best to prove I deserve a spot, I guess.”

“There you are, then. I still love playing for my country. No one is more excited than I am. I do not look forward to the last day. But the days after the last day… I think there will be things to enjoy.” He taps Iker on the chin. “You won’t enjoy having a real vacation during international break? Real summers? Screaming at the younger players with no pressure on oneself?” 

Iker chuckles. But his eyes drop to the figure between them. Gigi’s eyes follow. “Ah. Yes.” His eyes are full of sympathy. “That would make it more difficult.” 

Iker shifts minutely till he is pressed up behind Sergio as tight as he can manage. He traces Sergio’s bearded jawline, tickling his fingers.

He looks up to catch Gigi watching him closely. Gigi leans over and kisses him on the forehead. “I think,” he says, sitting up and looking around the room “I am going check on my teammates.” He looks down and brushes a hand over Iker’s cheek. “And I will probably not be back before morning.”

Iker puts out a hand to stop him. “You don’t have to do that. This is your room.”

“I insist.” Seeing that Iker is still ready to insist he couldn’t possibly, he adds “He will appreciate it.”

“He’s dead to the world!” Iker mutters.

“Then you’ll appreciate it.” He responds quietly. 

There’s nothing to say to that. 

He dresses quickly, even for an athlete, and pauses by the bed. Iker reaches out for him and takes his hand. “I know this is a cliché to say, Iker. But you’re a lucky man. “ He says it gently, but he isn’t smiling. For once he seems to wear every one of his years. Iker takes a moment to wonder about the stories he never heard. The names Gigi left out.

When the door clicks behind him Iker has an irrational thought of barring the door so no one can ever disturb them again. 

He maps Sergio’s tattoos without looking, till he can’t remember the details of the new one and he feels a blinding rush of fury. When he calms his breathing he realizes his cheeks are wet. And there it is, there’s the river he’s been trying to hold, back, roaring through his ears, taunting him with the thought of life without Sergio. Life without Sergio.

He feels cracked open.

He’s too wired to sleep but he’d fight it even if he was exhausted because he has a only a few more hours to watch him and he’s not going to waste it in a dreamland.

Iker wraps himself around Sergio more firmly, as if he’s never let him go. He listens to Sergio breath.


End file.
